


Gravitational Attraction

by kestrelsan



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 11:49:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6564967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kestrelsan/pseuds/kestrelsan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sanada wonders if they'll spend their lives circling each other, like planetary objects caught in each other's fields.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gravitational Attraction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prillalar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prillalar/gifts).



> Written for prillalar in the tenipuri x-pair exchange challenge.

He doesn't see Atobe again until the finals of the Japan Open. Sanada's running messages between the locker room and court, and Atobe is wearing a publicity badge with his father's company logo. They don't say anything to each other as they watch the match from the tunnel. It isn't how Sanada used to think it would be, but he's mostly accepted that.

Afterward, Atobe hands him a card. On the front, obnoxiously, is Atobe's name and his university seal. On the back is the name of a place downtown that Sanada's vaguely heard of. _Tomorrow. 11:00 AM_. 

"Who makes their own student business cards?"

"It's never too early to start branding." Atobe studies him beneath lazy eyelids, as arrogant as always. Sanada tells himself he hasn't missed that. "Don't be late."

****

"I thought you were with Tezuka," Sanada says. He expected a coffee shop, not an upscale lounge. The espresso comes in china so delicate Sanada's afraid he'll crush it.

Atobe contemplates him over the rim of his cappuccino. "I'm not with Tezuka."

Sanada's not sure why it matters, because he's not here to catch up. He doesn't care what Atobe's been doing the last five years. He has two reasons for being here. He assumes Atobe's reasons are the same.

They talk inconsequentialities. Atobe mentions an art gallery, and an artist Sanada doesn't know. It takes a moment before he realizes that Atobe is inviting him to the opening. Maybe he doesn't know Atobe's reasons after all.

Sanada thinks about wine glasses and white lights and careless people admiring splashes of paint. He finishes his espresso and places the cup on the table between them. "Let's play a match."

Atobe raises an eyebrow, tilts his cappuccino.

****

Sanada takes two buses and walks the mile to Atobe's house with his tennis bag slung over his shoulder. The gate is meant for cars; he pushes the intercom button and waits until the heavy iron doors swing open, revealing one of the house staff in a golf cart.

The driver cheerfully asks how he knows Atobe-san, and carries the conversation until they reach the tennis court. Atobe is already practicing his serve.

"You can change in there," Atobe says, as the golf cart zips away. He waves his racquet at the clubhouse between the tennis court and pool. Sanada enters the building, eyes adjusting to the dimmer light, and finds an empty cubby to fold his street clothes in.

Atobe wins the serve. He pulls out all his tricks from school, the same flash and spectacle. Sanada finds his groove slowly. It's always like this, as much about tuning out his opponent as finding weaknesses in them, but he's never been able to tune Atobe out.

They hold serve, break each other's serve, hold serve again. They play the first set like it's the last one, decided by games, not points, until Sanada's shoulder is on fire and his muscles shake. He has another game in him, maybe two.

"Enough," Atobe says, lowering his racquet. His hair clings to his head. His eyes narrow. For a second it's five years ago, when all Sanada thought he wanted was a championship. Just one of many threads left unresolved.

Afterward, Atobe kisses him in the clubhouse, pushes him up against the wooden cubbies that line the wall and dig into Sanada's back. Atobe puts his tongue in Sanada's mouth, his hands on either side of him. Sanada holds on to Atobe's hips and tries not to come.

"Atobe-san!" they hear from outside the clubhouse. Atobe bites Sanada's bottom lip.

"I'll call you," Atobe says, and drapes his towel over his shoulder. Sanada finds his own way back to the gate.

****

Atobe doesn't call. Sanada gets a text a few days later. _Come to the house this weekend_.

Sanada thinks about Atobe's house, the tennis court and pool, the miles of lawn and damask curtains showing through the windows. He texts back. _Let's go camping_.

His phone buzzes. "Camping," Atobe says.

"I have a tent."

A long silence. "A tent."

Sanada lies back in bed and thinks about Atobe in his tent, the curve of Atobe's wrist, the wet pressure of Atobe's mouth on his. He wonders if Tezuka ever took Atobe camping. "If you don't want to."

A pause. "I'll pick you up."

It rains most of the two-hour hike to a spot Sanada knows. They set up the tent and Sanada lays their sleeping bags out to dry. Everything is damp and cold and musty.

Atobe's wet hair drips onto Sanada's bare chest when he strips away Sanada's fleece and undershirt. The nylon sleeping bag rustles underneath him. Atobe unbuttons Sanada's jeans, pulls them and his underwear over his hips and down his legs. The wet denim sticks to Sanada's skin, leaving cold damp patches.

Atobe's hands close over Sanada's wrists, like he's holding a racquet. He places them on either side of Sanada's head. "Keep them there," he says.

Sanada's heart pounds in his ears. His skin jumps when Atobe's mouth closes over him.

He listens to the rain beating down on the roof of the tent. The wet sounds of Atobe's mouth working over him. He holds his wrists steady, not letting them slip, not even when he comes, fingers curling.

Atobe sits back on his heels. A fleck of Sanada's come is in the corner of his mouth. "That's for making me go camping."

****

The first time Atobe fucks him they're in a hotel near Atobe's university. They meet for dinner first. The food isn't what Sanada's used to, something European, and he picks over it, feeling out of place in the golden-hued dining room, surrounded by the clink of wine glasses and the soft murmur of conversation. This is Atobe's world, not his, and Atobe's penthouse. In the room, Atobe rolls him over on the bed and massages the muscles of Sanada's ass, and Sanada grips the soft expensive sheets.

Sanada's done this once before. It had hurt, and Sanada hadn't liked it much. Atobe spends a lot of time stretching him. It doesn't hurt. Sanada's still not sure he likes it.

Atobe's phone goes off when his fingers are in Sanada's ass. Atobe takes the call and Sanada lies there, embarrassed and turned on, as Atobe's fingers stutter inside him, distracted. After a moment Atobe pulls them out and moves into the sitting area.

Sanada listens to the confident edges of Atobe's voice. His ass feels weird, stretched and slick from lube. After a minute he gets up, finds his pants and shirt, thinks about going to the bathroom first to clean up.

"Don't go." Atobe tosses his phone on the chair. His hand closes over Sanada's wrist, pulls him forward until their mouths meet. Sanada has to tilt his head down to reach Atobe's.

Afterward, his ass still signaling shocks of pleasure to the rest of him, he feels Atobe's fingers on the inside of his wrist, up the sensitive skin of his arm. Tracing lazy patterns Sanada can feel along his nerve endings, marks that take a while to fade.

****

"You still haven't answered," Atobe says, when they're lying in Atobe's bed, Atobe's parents somewhere in this monstrosity of a house.

Sanada's not sure what they're talking about. Sex with Atobe isn't that different from tennis with him, just as exhausting and exciting, and it takes Sanada as long to regroup.

"About the art gallery opening," Atobe says.

Sanada thought that was weeks ago. "I have a lot of schoolwork this semester."

"Sanada," Atobe says, then sighs. "Never mind."

****

He's at a concert when he sees Atobe and Tezuka, their heads tilted toward each other over a shared program a few rows in front of him. Sanada watches them while the flutes and oboes and violins of the orchestra sound in the background, his pulse beating unsteadily. He stays until intermission, taking a perverse pleasure in his own masochism.

He leaves while everyone is getting drinks at the bar. Atobe and Tezuka are there, and Atobe looks up when Sanada passes them, his fingers stilling on his drink.

Sanada nods at him, folds his program and tucks it in his coat pocket. 

The night air is bracing when he walks to the bus stop. His phone buzzes while he's waiting. Sanada listens to it whir, feels the vibration in his pocket until it eventually stops.

****

 _I'm not with Tezuka_. Sanada stares at the text, puts his phone away. 

He meets Renji at the courts. It's their routine, once a week. Renji sees that he's distracted and takes advantage of it. Sanada loses the first set six-two and the second six-love.

They have lunch at the clubhouse after. Renji is studying computational psychology, and he tells Sanada about the AI he and his study group are developing for a project. Sanada can't follow the mathematics of it, and he's not sure he wants to follow the psychology of it. He wonders how they got from then to now, except nothing's really changed. Or maybe he's the only one who hasn't changed.

"Genichirou," Renji says, because Sanada hasn't been listening.

"I saw Atobe," Sanada says. "At the Japan Open."

Renji takes a sip from his drink. Sanada can see his mind working, maybe taking notes for his AI. "I hear he's at Todai."

Sanada takes out Atobe's card, looks at the seal. "Yes." He wonders if Renji still talks with Inui. If Inui still talks with Tezuka.

"Did you ever finish your match?" Renji's perception usually annoys him, but Sanada's the one who brought it up.

They're interrupted by the waiter, who comes by to clear their table and ask if they want anything else. Sanada puts Atobe's card back in his pocket. By the time the table is clear and they've paid the bill, he's moved the conversation on to something else.

****

He doesn't see Atobe again until a charity function at one of the downtown hotels. Sanada's not sure why he's here, except Renji is supposed to be here and maybe Jackal, but he can't find them through the press of bodies.

Atobe is in a small group by a set of lounge chairs. He's brought a date, who wears a suit as expensively tailored as Atobe's. The date leans in to hear what Atobe is saying, their shoulders brushing.

Later, Atobe finds him at the bar. Sanada's had too much to drink. He doesn't let himself drink like this, but Renji and Jackal never showed, and it's too early to go home.

Atobe slides elegantly onto the stool next to him and signals the bartender, who places a glass of brandy in front of him.

"Where's your friend?" Sanada asks, and congratulates himself on how steady his voice is.

"You're the one who didn't want to do this," Atobe says.

 _Do what?_ Sanada thinks, but he's remembering lying in Atobe's bed, Atobe's hands on him; the first time Atobe kissed him, Sanada's second year at Rikkai. 

"I'll have my car take you home."

Sanada's hand tightens on his glass. "I can take the bus."

But when he stands his legs buckle a little, gone to sleep from sitting on the stool too long. Atobe steadies him with a hand on his shoulder, then walks with him outside.

"Shut up, Sanada," Atobe says, before Sanada can protest again. Atobe's car pulls up to the curb. To Sanada's surprise Atobe gets in with him, and gives the driver Sanada's university address.

Sanada leans his forehead against the cool window. His head hurts. His stomach churns from too much alcohol. 

Atobe helps him back to his single and deposits him on the bed.

"Won't your friend wonder where you've gone?"

"I already let him know. Sanada," Atobe says, then stops. Sanada stares up at the ceiling, which insists on moving, and grips his comforter in his fists, bracing himself for whatever Atobe is going to say.

Atobe doesn't say anything. He's gone when Sanada wakes up, his head pounding and mouth dry. He reaches for the bottle of water Atobe left on the nightstand.

****

 _Play another match with me_ , he texts Atobe, but Atobe doesn't respond. After the third day Sanada stops checking for a reply.

****

Renji is telling him about the computer simulation his project team is running, where the AI was able to establish a network connection and begin processing data in under three seconds. Renji is excited, but Sanada's seen enough science fiction to be horrified.

"Genichirou," Renji says, and Sanada realizes Renji's said his name twice. He releases the paper napkin he's been slowly shredding in his hand.

"I'm sorry," he says. "Please continue."

He has a history exam in the morning, so he takes his books to the library to study. He lays his phone face up on the table and looks at the blank screen.

 _I'm sorry about the opening,_ he texts Atobe, then opens one of his books.

His phone buzzes. _Where are you?_

_Library. Test tomorrow._

No response. Sanada looks back at his book, reads a few paragraphs. _Do your best_ , Atobe buzzes at him a few minutes later.

****

They see each other again at a tennis tournament Sanada and Renji's club is sponsoring. It's for amateurs but the competition's good, and Sanada feels the same buildup of excitement he used to at Rikkai. His university team doesn't have the same level of challenge.

Atobe is watching, not playing, and Sanada sees him in the stands when he takes his first match in two sets. He comes down to the court when Sanada's warming up for his second. Sanada wonders if they'll spend their lives circling each other, like planetary objects caught in each other's fields.

"Hit some balls with me," Sanada says.

Atobe's not dressed for tennis, but he takes Sanada's spare racquet and feeds him a few lobs. Sanada hits one back to him, and Atobe twitches his wrist. The drop shot lands just over the net.

"Are we going to do this?"

Sanada pauses in his swing. Atobe's next lob bounces past him. He thinks about dating Atobe. What it would be like. Weird, probably, and infuriating, because it's Atobe, but Sanada might not mind that.

"What about your friend?"

"A friend," Atobe says. His eyes narrow. "And I'm not dating Tezuka."

Sanada pulls a ball from his pocket, rubs his thumb over it. "All right," he says, his serve landing a few inches from Atobe's feet.

"Idiot," Atobe says. He lobs another one Sanada's direction.

Sanada backhands it down the line.

 

END


End file.
